


Stay

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-15
Updated: 2009-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For st_xi_kink prompt: McCoy/Chapel hurt/comfort angst. Preferably with sex.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> For st_xi_kink prompt: McCoy/Chapel hurt/comfort angst. Preferably with sex.

She thinks a lot of things, once the captain pulls off another of his miracles and she reintegrates, with a busted lip but otherwise intact, on the transporter pad. Things like, _I didn’t sign up for this_ and _it was only an hour, Christine, get yourself together_ and _that right there, that was what an eternity must feel like_.

She looks down at the three bodies that were transported along with her and she thinks there's a nasty irony in the nurse being the only one to survive.

Christine steps back and watches, silent, as a medical team swarms the pad to make their futile efforts. When she finally lifts her gaze, she sees McCoy just coming in. He gives her a hard look and crooks his finger at her and waits for her to come to his side. He doesn’t say a word, just walks out and expects her to follow. She knows better, if not from a year of knowing him then from the obvious tension in every step he takes, than to disobey.

In medical he gestures to one of the exam alcoves. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says tersely. “Sit tight.”

Christine sits, straight and still. She licks at the swollen side of her torn lip, tastes the faint tang of blood as her tongue wets the clotted wound. When McCoy returns he works quickly but steadily, subjecting her to a cursory full-body scan. "Just the mouth?" he asks from the preliminary results. He takes a sample of her blood and sets it for the standard screening.

"Just the mouth," she agrees. The sound of her own voice rings strange in her ears.

He supports her chin with his fingertips as he passes a dermal regenerator over her lip. He keeps his gaze focused on the task and she’s grateful for it, for his not taking advantage and searching out things she’s sure her eyes would betray. “I’d like to keep this as brief as possible, for your sake,” he says. She can hear it coming a mile away. “But I need you to be honest with me. Is there anything else I should know that isn't showing on-”

“No,” she cuts in. “I got backhanded when they first attacked, but they left me alone after that. I got the impression there was a pretty big gender issue going on.”

A flare of anger twists his features for a moment, and she can tell he almost slips and makes a sarcastic comment. She wonders if it would be along the lines of her own, her shameful wish that the paternalism had extended to not having her watch, listen. But he just finishes up and sets down the regenerator. Christine worries at her freshly healed lip with her teeth, tests it. “All right,” he says. “As soon as your blood finishes, then, we’ll get you out of here.”

The scanner beeps, right on cue. "Clean," she reads off for him. "So I can go?"

"I'll walk you. You're off duty, restricted to quarters for at least twelve hours."

“I still need to report,” she says. She pushes her cuticles back with one thumbnail, a bad habit, a nervous one.

“It’ll hold ‘til tomorrow,” he tells her firmly. “The captain agrees - trust me, he's already got the details he needs. On your feet, Chapel, let’s go.”

She slides off the table and follows him out of the medical bay, her eyes fixed firmly ahead to avoid making contact with anyone else's. She'd be able to handle knowing gazes, expressions of sympathy.

She would _not_ be able to handle it if there were any blame. The coward's way out, she thinks, not to risk it, but hell. She might as well make a day of it and try to be a better person tomorrow.

They don't talk, on the way to her quarters, nor when she walks inside and he follows, unasked. She avoids his eyes, too, and turns her back to go to the mirror and begin pulling pins from her hair. “Out with it,” he finally says gruffly when her hair falls free and she turns around, at a loss for other ways to escape him.

“Out with what?”

“Whatever it is you’re bottling up over this. Get it out now before it can even _start_ eating at you.”

Christine frowns, chews her lip for a minute. “I don’t know how,” she admits. “I don’t even know what 'it' is.”

He stares at her. “Try telling me what happened. Your version of it.”

She meets his gaze steadily at last. “They died screaming, is what happened. One after the other, quickly. And when I should have been wondering if there was anything I could do to help them, instead I wondered how long being a woman was going to protect me once they’d run out of men.”

He’s the one to look away, just briefly. A muscle in his jaw flexes beneath the skin. “Good God, Christine, are you _blaming_ yourself? For being scared?”

She can’t recall him ever saying her first name before. She lets it pass unremarked. “Should I be congratulating myself instead? Honestly, Doctor McCoy, tell me. I’ve never - I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling right now. Everything I try seems _wrong_ , somehow." Her hands flutter in a helpless, restless gesture. "I couldn't - I _can't_ figure out what to do."

He's on her in three quick steps, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her gently. "You survived. Sometimes that's the only goddamn thing you *can* do, do you hear me?"

It's a nice sentiment, Christine thinks, but hardly tells her what to do _next_. For lack of any other idea, she grasps for something, anything familiar. She reaches up and clamps her palms against his cheeks and kisses him hard.

They don’t do this often, just a handful of times in the year they’ve been out. The first time had almost derailed the fragile friendship they were building and shocked the hell out of her. But the captain had been sick for three days, burning with a fever that wouldn’t break, and after another treatment failed to work she’d followed McCoy into his office and touched his shoulder and something stretched taut and snapped between them in the moment he met her worried gaze.

She can’t remember anymore, who kissed who first. Just that he kissed her last, after, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and walked out without a word about what had just happened. The next couple of times had been similar, abrupt encounters that had more to do with relieving the tension of one crisis or another than-well. Than with anything else she can figure out. It’s not like they’ve ever talked about it.

She’s never really been sure she would _want_ to, even if she could figure out how to broach the subject. There’s no handbook for that sort of thing, for how to deal with fucking her boss on his office floor for the occasional bit of stress relief.

Or, okay, in her bed, the once. Christine has tended to think of that time as an aberration in pretty much every way; the crisis had passed, everyone had lived, they just hadn’t _slept_ in three days. And so what if he wound up coming in instead of heading on his way after walking her to her quarters; so what if he wound up taking his time, taking _her_ in a way that felt almost - caring.

It was a _fluke_. He’d been gone by the time she woke and she’d been relieved. They hadn’t so much as looked at each other inappropriately since. But he's looking at her right now like he'd tear the universe apart to put her back together again, and she suddenly, desperately, wants the calming solace she's found in his mouth and his touch on other occasions.

He has other ideas, apparently. "Wait, wait," he mutters. His body eases back, though his lips keep chasing more contact like he can't help himself. She grabs fistfuls of his uniform shirt to try to keep him close. "Damn it, that's not - this is not why I came he -"

"Yes, it is." She tightens her grip. "It's what I need. It's what I want. _Isn't_ that why you're here?" She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Please."

He makes a soft sound, a rumble, and his body reverses course and makes her backpedal. "Call me 'Doctor' even once and you'll regret it," he threatens mildly. She laughs, sharp and high in her throat, and it makes her fear what else might come burbling out at any moment.

McCoy maneuvers her into her bathroom and sets about stripping them both down, slowly, methodically. She closes her eyes and holds still and just lets him, lets him take care of her. He programs the shower temperature and guides her carefully under the spray.

Christine lets her head fall forward, water cascading over and into her hair; he drags his hands over her shoulders, up her neck, combs his fingers up along the base of her skull and massages slowly. The light pressure makes her sigh, makes her neck loosen and curve even more. "Good girl," he says quietly. "Relax."

She finds it impossible not to. He works through the proper sequence of her soaps without needing to ask and she feels the most irrational flare of satisfaction at that, at the fact that whoever else has had him and taught him before, she has him now. His hands move almost - almost, not quite - clinically over her body, cleaning, pausing to rub tension from her muscles, and when she's rinsed he pulls her close, lets her slump against him. She wraps her arms around him and listens to his heart, a steady counterbeat to the crash of water on her back.

He waits her out, his only movement the stroke of his fingertips in small circles between her shoulderblades. After long minutes she turns her face into his chest, kisses softly. His hand flattens against her back and she kisses again, works her way up slowly, over his neck and his jaw to the wet heat of his mouth. He cradles her head in one hand and kisses her like he never has before, lazy and slow, his tongue gliding against hers in easy strokes.

Christine goes with it, lets him make her feel only good things, lets him crowd everything else out of her head except sensation and a fleeting gratitude to be alive to experience it. He presses her against the shower wall and delves a hand between her legs, his clever fingers sussing out the right motion, the right firmness, to make her tremble on weak knees and cling to him, to make her whimper into his mouth.

When he tips her over the edge and she lets go at last, she prays he won't notice the tears mixing with the water on her face. She suspects he does, the way he draws back and gazes at her, concern in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. He just holds her gaze and fits their bodies together, lifting even as he enters her. Her back slides along the wall; she clutches at his shoulders and wraps her legs tight around him. "Careful," she says, unsteady and uncertain, scared.

He touches his lips to the hollow of her throat, rocks slowly into her. "Don't worry," he murmurs. "I've got you."

God, how she hopes that's true. Christine closes her eyes against the sting of fresh tears. "I want more," she whispers. She doesn't know how else, when else to admit it; she doesn't know if he'll understand, or if she really wants him to.

McCoy hesitates, but then his mouth covers hers in a fast, hard kiss. He shifts her weight and pulls out and sets her carefully on her feet, holding tight until he's sure she won't slip. Then he slaps off the water and takes her hand and pulls her along, pushes her soaking wet onto her bed. "You," he says, easing his body over hers, pushing back in, "can have any damn thing you want from me."

Her breath catches. She clutches at his slick skin, urges him, and he moves in swift, steady strokes, adjusting every so often until he finds the angle that makes her tense and arch and dig her nails into his back. He kisses and licks at every inch of skin he can reach, plunges deep, mutters, "you gotta hurry, jesus, I can't -" Christine fumbles at his face, makes him look at her. His brow, furrowed with tension, smoothes slowly. "Christine," he says quietly.

His voice, low and warm and thick with want, undoes her. He follows swiftly. He doesn't move after, heavy but warm on top of her, welcome, and she rakes her fingers through his wet hair as he tucks his face into the tangled mess of her own and rests. "Do you have to get back?" she asks, after a long time.

McCoy makes a wordless noise and rolls, dragging her along to lie on top of him. "No," he mutters. He grabs a handful of her blanket and draws it around them both, over her back. She rests her cheek on his chest and closes her eyes. "No," he says again. "I'm staying right here."


End file.
